


Valley of Flowers

by School_Of_The_Cat



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Flowers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gore, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Smut, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Canon Fix-It, if they don't make them happy in the next season we riot, jaskier is too forgiving, the last chapter is NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23199685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/School_Of_The_Cat/pseuds/School_Of_The_Cat
Summary: Geralt stood frozen, petrified, as yellow cast by the townsfolk’s flames lit the singer, grey eyes fixed on his lute, lips parted as he drew in a breath for his next note. Illuminated in gold and blue sat Jaskier, gossamer silk slung loosely around his shoulders, dewey skin exposed to the night air, and atop his head adorned a crown of wildflowers, lilies, poppies, wolfs’ bane and fools’ parsley.  His soft fingers pulled at the strings of his lute as he hummed a tune to the townsfolk. Geralt felt as if his head was about to float away, as if he were underwater, drowning in gold.Hi the end of the tv series hurt me and I just wanted to write about Jaskier wearing pretty things and Geralt being less of a dick
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 149





	1. Silk

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting one of my written fan-works online so please be good to me! I don't really know what I'm doing with this one so if y'all have any suggestions I'd love to write more, can't get enough of these boys. (Also this is sort of a mix of both game lore and show lore so I probably got some stuff wrong but who cares right)

“Buttercup.”

“What?”

“That’s what my name means in the common tongue. I was made fun of all the time as a child for having such a girly name. Funny, right?”

“Buttercup?”

“Like the yellow flower.”

“Hmmn.”

* * *

A year had passed and the road was wet and grey as ever. Geralt gripped the leather of Roach’s lead and cursed the weather as the two slogged through the murk of the swamp. Fog for miles in this bloody cursed bog, nothing but thick grey mud and silt that reeked of death. He’d received a contract in some backwater town, not that it mattered. Lately he’d thrown himself from one bloody battle to another, feeling less and less like he cared whether he’d come out in one piece. Roach stopped by the side of the road to nose at some yellow flowers. Grunting, Geralt pulled her back onto the path, the wet grey mire that oozed from the ground starting to settle in the pit of his stomach. Finding a patch of earth that wasn’t completely sodden through, he lit a fire and laid out a moth-eaten blanket, finding a blank parchment in his bag to write to Ciri and Vesemir back in Kaer Morhen. He’d been hesitant to leave them, but the unrest that sank in his gut had grown so severe that he found himself practically crippled by it. By the third week without eating or sleeping he forced himself back on the road, the thread of destiny pulling at his heartstrings.

“We could use the extra coin.”

That’s what he’d told Vesemir, anyhow. Not that it was untrue, but the uneasiness that grew in him was certainly not from a lack of coin. Lately, he’d been having horrible dreams, vague ones framed with gore and the smell of blood, but always, just as he would come out of it he’d see the familiar cornflower blue of hopeful eyes and he’d feel bile in his throat. Awakening like a drowning man, gasping and swimming in his own sweat, he’d sit for hours sometimes, clutching his head, trying his damndest to will away that visage and conjured scent of linseed oil and violets. He still remembered that fury, the rage he felt when Yen left, how it burned as it left his mouth, those horrible words he spat at that foolish musician whom he’d bonded himself with, how those wet eyes were wide with hurt, how he couldn’t dare face him, even after the rage had subsided, and all he was left with was his horse and his regret. It ran deep and thick as blood, and he felt it the most after those dreams. He never dreamed about Yennifer- no, in fact, her absence almost brought about a strange calm to his life. But Jaskier, with those stupid ballads he’d write and that lovely blue-grey doublet he’d wear that tapered at his waist, smelling of camomile oils and perfumes and _flowers_. His memory haunted him, rooted deep in his sub-conscience. He could still see that grief-stricken look on his face seared behind his eyelids. 

Those days in the swamp were long and unbearably cold, even despite Geralt’s mutations, and he felt as if maybe even his soul had frozen over. This morning was warmer than usual, however, and for once the Witcher didn’t dream of Jaskier’s eyes but instead slept like the dead, long and deep. He felt rested, for once, and the guilt and anxiety subsided slightly as the sun came up red over the hillside. He rode for a little less than an hour on Roach’s back before he came upon a village signpost. It was a rickety little hamlet, but even so, Geralt felt relieved to be out of that awful grey bog. The townsfolk were dirty and sunken and peered cautiously at the white-haired beast who rode on horseback through their quiet existence. After the town, he’d reached a prairie, wide and flat and filled with yellow grass. It was pleasantly warm, spring announcing itself through the birdsong and flower buds that peered up cautiously through the dirt. He passed a farm being tended to by two half-elves. Their conversation carried on the wind over to Geralt’s sensitive ears.

“In Benek?”

“Yes, he’s only passing through, but what a sight, to see Dandelion preform in this little backwater.”

Dandelion? A yellow flower flickered briefly in Geralt’s mind before he extinguished the idea entirely. Of course, it wouldn’t be him. Though he needed somewhere to stay the night, and since Benek was the closest town, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to check it out, at least. Besides, it’s a pleasant area compared to that hellish wasteland, and he wouldn’t mind picking up a contract or two. Maybe mail his letters to Kaer Morhen while he was at it. 

The bread in Benek was warm and yellow like their fields, a crisp shell and soft white flesh inside, and paired with a pitcher of white ale Geralt began to feel his stomach warm. He must have been sitting in that pub for a while, because soon the townspeople filed out one by one, quietly holding candles and torches. Geralt followed them out into the blue night where, at the centre of town the people stood holding lamps and lights, huddled around a tree slung with wreaths of fresh wildflowers, gentle birdsong floating up from beneath the crowd. Geralt stood frozen, petrified, as yellow cast by the townsfolk’s flames lit the singer, grey eyes fixed on his lute, lips parted as he drew in a breath for his next note. 

Illuminated in gold and blue sat Jaskier, gossamer silk slung loosely around his shoulders, dewey skin exposed to the night air, and atop his head adorned a crown of wildflowers, lilies, poppies, wolfs’ bane and fools’ parsley.His soft fingers pulled at the strings of his lute as he hummed a tune to the townsfolk. Geralt felt as if his head was about to float away, as if he were underwater, drowning in gold. He stood tucked into the crowd away from Jaskier’s gaze as he watched his companion sing sweet and low in the night air, nestled at the roots of a dying oak tree. His hair was slightly longer since they’d parted, now clinging to his face like a frame of yellow and brown. His skin was tanner as well, more weatherbeaten and bronzed, a sunburn hinting at the ridge of his nose, flush with blood. He looked so alive, so real, and Geralt’s fists trembled as he resisted plunging forward into the crowd and feeling that soft skin under his own hands. His lute glinted as his fingers found the final chord. Smiling politely, he stood to bow, and only then did he freeze, the colour leaving his face as his eyes locked with Geralt’s between the rows of faces. His expression twisted into something unreadable, and suddenly he was turning away from the audience back into the night from where he came. Like the end of Geralt’s dreams, he felt his warmth slip away into the blue. His hand caught his forearm and suddenly he was facing him, wet eyes staring up at him. 

“Let go of me, you brute!”

Geralt blinked, dropping his friend’s arm dumbly. He’d stumbled after him into the night without even realizing. 

“You must be a masochist or something, _truly_ Geralt. I mean really! I leave Cintra, change my name and _fuck’s sake_ here you are nonetheless. You still managed to find me after all that. You must really enjoy suffering, don’t you?”

Jaskier’s biting tone was foreign and frigid, his face turned away, eyes fixed on the ground. 

“Seeking out the object of your torment, tell me Geralt, why is it you love to suffer? Why are you here, now, after all these months, after I’d started to forget the fair Witcher from Rivia, why now do you stand before me? Are you here to mock me? Are you?”

In all truthfulness, he didn’t mean to find him. He didn’t mean to hunt down Jaskier, yet he stood before his friend, dressed in foreign silks and flowers and _gods_. He looked almost ethereal. 

“Jas.”

His voice was low and Jaskier was crying now, face buried behind soft fingers, shoulders heaving and Geralt pulled him flush against his chest. He’d held him only a seldom few times before, his smell lingering on his clothes days afterwards, making Geralt feel a dumb sort of drunken happiness as they travelled together. Now he held him in a shower of flower petals, the thin silk of his shirt falling over one shoulder, skin warm and tanned and freckled. Though Geralt never verbally apologized, the way he clung to the other, strong and protective, spoke loudly enough and soon Jaskier’s sobbing had stopped and was replaced with silence as he relished the warmth that Geralt exuded. 


	2. Furs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are trying to heal

Swaddled in Geralt’s furs, Jaskier was uncharacteristically silent as he watched the Witcher tend to the smouldering fireplace. His silk costume and headpiece had been abandoned, slung over a wooden chair, and replaced with Geralt's nightshirt that hung loosely over his slender frame. 

Somehow the Witcher had managed to convince him to come out of the cold blue night back to the room he’d rented. There they that sat in silence, Jaskier sitting on the edge of the bed, and Geralt across the room, eyes lost in the fireplace. The quiet made him uneasy; usually, Jaskier was hard to shut up. The fact that he was so silent made Geralt feel the full weight of his guilt. To lessen the blow, he tried tending to him, offering him bread and wine, wrapping him in furs but still nothing, just venomous silence and the guilt of turning on his only friend. 

He shouldn’t have yelled at him. He attempted to break the silence. 

“So, what’s with the flowers?” Geralt gestured at the pieces of costume strewn about the small room. 

Jaskier blinked at him.

“Just trying something new, I guess. I met an elf in the south who suggested using them in my performances, and the people responded well.”

“And Dandelion?”

“I like the flower. And it’s sort of fitting, right? A weed that’s difficult to be rid of?”

Geralt knew the last bit was a jab at him. He bit his lip.

“I’m sorry Jas, I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

Instead of a quippy comment, he was graced with dead air. He finally met Jaskier’s eyes, but he was standing now, seemingly lost under the Witcher’s enormous stature. 

“What happened to us?”

The question was innocent but difficult to answer. It used to be easy to explain; the charismatic bard and his friend, the brooding Witcher. A friend for the road, someone to depend upon and look out for, but slowly something had taken root underneath the pleasantries and suddenly Jaskier found himself looking too long and feeling too much. And Geralt, well he had his destiny, to live with Yennifer and Cirilla and have a home and a family. They both knew that. So when Yen left and Geralt snapped and chased away his only friend, he was shocked to find the hole left in him was shaped like that silly little bard with eyes of cornflower blue. 

He missed the way he’d sing to him, how he’d run his hands through his hair to rid it of dirt and blood, how he always smelled pleasant and soft, how he’d mumble in his sleep and tell Roach stories and forgave so much while being given so little. He was so forgiving. And now a thorn grew in each of them, the realization that destiny fucked up, that they missed each other more than they could bear when they were parted. 

Geralt’s hands felt large on the minstrel's waist, the other’s arms thrown over his shoulders, and they stood a long while just looking at the other, remembering the other’s face, and greeting the new freckles and scars that formed from the year that had passed since they were last together. Jaskier looked older somehow, faint creases forming around his eyes when he laughed. Geralt had a new scar over his cheekbone, puffy and white, and Jaskier traced it with his fingers, dipping down into the hollow of his jaw. His hand lingered there, pupils blown wide and his other hand met white hair, threading his fingers through to where it met scalp. Geralt’s name on his tongue, he kissed him sweetly, soft lips tasting like honey and wine, and Geralt gripped his waist tighter, pulling them flush against the other. Geralt’s lips nipped at the tender bit of flesh on his shoulder, and Jaskier let out a breath.He picked him up almost effortlessly, laying him down onto the soft feather mattress, showering the pale column of his throat in kisses. 

When he finally moved away to adjust the cotton of his nightshirt, Jaskier had already let sleep take him, his lips parted as his chest rose and fell in steady rhythm. Chuckling quietly to himself, Geralt moved the furs in his bed to cover him. 

“Sleep now, little songbird.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a dumb headcanon about the name Dandelion and me trying to link the game and the show lmao don't mind me


	3. Tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two boys run into some river trouble

“I’m coming with you.” 

Jaskier was already packed and dressed by dawn. Morning light filtered in through the inn window, with the sounds of the townspeople outside creating a soft veil of white noise. 

“Are you now? Thought you were mad at me.” 

Jaskier touched his neck briefly in thought. 

“You could say I’ve had a change in heart. Besides, I’m running out of good material. People are getting tired of the same ballads about affectionate whores, they crave adventure!”

Geralt’s expression softened into a smirk.

“What? I have to please the people!”

The weather was warm and Jaskier walked alongside Roach twittering about some girl he’d met in Velen. Geralt hummed low as Jaskier talked, swaying on horseback as they wound through the yellow prairies on uneven dirt roads. He’d picked up a contract to take care of a werewolf in the next town over, and Jaskier was delighted to see the Witcher at work once again. 

“Been a while since I’d witnessed the great White Wolf in action. You know people request the songs about you the most, Geralt? It’s true, you’ve made me quite the pretty penny.”

“So if you write about me again, you don’t need to wear that silly outfit anymore?”

Jaskier opened his mouth with mock offence.

“ _Silly?_ Sophisticated and refined, more like. That was _elven_ silk, you know? Plus I’m telling you, it really added to my charm. When people look back they’ll see that period as a revolutionary time for bards everywhere. The flower-bearing dandelion.” He held his hands out in front of him, envisioning the name in scripture. 

“Hmm, I doubt it. You were dancing around half-naked for a bunch of peasants, Jas.”

“Yeah well, women loved it." Geralt let out a breathy laugh.

Roach stopped by a nearby river to drink from the cool water, and Geralt ran a gloved hand over her haunches. The midday sun was starting to beat down now, and he figured they might as well stop to eat soon.

“How are your feet?” 

Jaskier looked confused at the question.

“Are they tired, I mean? Was thinking we could stop soon.”

The bard’s face changed as he averted his gaze. 

“I’m alright if you want to keep going. Funny, I wasn’t expecting you to ask.”

Geralt smiled despite himself at how Jaskier’s face changed at the question. A loudmouth bard, unabashed in his confidence and bravado suddenly sweetened beneath his yellow gaze. Together they refilled their canteens at the river and broke bread by the pebbly shore, sitting shoulder to shoulder, watching fish jump out from the glassy surface. 

“I wonder what makes water so pretty.” Jaskier mused, tossing a pebble into the lively river.

“hmm.”

“I mean, by all means it shouldn’t be, right? It's just clear and wet and yet it always brings about a strange feeling of… nostalgia almost. Like I want to write a song about it. Who’d want to hear a song about water, though? Sounds bloody boring to me.”

“I would, if you wrote it.”

Geralt pressed his nose to Jaskier’s hair, relishing the lingering scent of wildflowers left by yesterday’s performance. He let his eyelids flutter shut, welcoming the warmth of the midday sun and the food in his stomach. 

The whole thing happened so quickly that Geralt barely had time to grab his sword. A drowner, sickly blue and foul, had risen from the riverbank so quietly, that while Geralt was momentarily lost in his bliss, it had crossed the river and grasped Jaskier’s ankle with one of its horrid claws, granting a shriek from the man as he tried to scramble away back to Geralt’s protection. It was too late though, the drowner already had its hands on him, pulling him down the shoreline into the water, all the while Jaskier squealed and thrashed around like a fish. 

Jumping to his feet, Geralt’s blood rushed through him, pushing him forward, silver blade in hand. He managed to grasp Jaskier’s other wrist as he flailed at him wildly, keeping him from being dragged away by the creature. A low animalistic growl in his throat, he tore the bard away from the putrid blue flesh and back onto the shoreline. A bit dazed, Jaskier watched from the grassy ledge by the water, his eyes huge as he watched the beast rise in Geralt, yellow eyes wild and alight with anger, pupils reduced to threatening slits. He cleaved the creature in half with a single blow. 

Panting as he came down from the high, The Witcher turned to the minstrel, who looked white as parchment and as if he was going to be sick, blood seeping into his shirt, shaking violently, now wet and cold and frightened. Geralt surged forward, scooping him up from the riverside. It took a moment for Jaskier to process what had happened before he started to squirm in his arms.

“Geralt what the FUCK?!”

“Are you hurt? You’re bleeding. Drowner blood is dangerous to humans, if it managed to scratch you—“

Jaskier’s face was red now, his fists pounding at the leather arms holding him suspended.

“I’m fine, you oaf! I just scratched my shoulder on a stone, now let me down!”

Surprised, Geralt slowly bent to rest him back on his feet, still standing close. His hand lingered on his back a moment before he swatted it away again.

“Though I appreciate the help, I can take care of myself. It’s not like I’ve never seen a drowner before, and besides,” a delicate silver dagger flashed from his hip, “I was travelling on my own for a year. I had to learn to protect myself.”

Geralt felt a strange flicker of guilt bloom in his stomach. For some reason the image of the little bard holding a knife seemed so wrong to him. 

“Still, I should look at the wound. It could still get infected.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes dramatically. Sitting on a rock, Geralt carefully undid the hooks on the cream coloured doublet covering Jaskier’s chest. He made sure to be extra gentle, struggling clumsily with the tiny clasps between his large fingers. Jaskier laughed at the sight, helping him with the last few hooks, which coaxed a mumbled 'thank you' from the Witcher, the tips of his ears blushed pink. Sliding the thick fabric over his arms, Geralt pulled at the string trying the front of his undershirt open, the white fabric falling down around his shoulders. Geralt could tell from the scent that he’d rubbed himself in chamomile this morning, and his hands ghosted over his bare chest, feeling the soft tuft of hair and heat that fell away from his skin. Jaskier cleared his throat, face flushed.

“My back, Geralt? Remember?”

Geralt scolded himself silently, heat rising in his chest as he manoeuvred around the rock, facing Jaskier’s back. There was a small gash between his shoulder blades, not deep, but bloody, and Geralt immediately grabbed for a scrap of fabric and alcohol. Jaskier hissed as the cloth met the wound, the alcohol stinging as it cleansed the flesh. He then pulled out a yellow bottle, a soothing cream of Celandine, which he rubbed into Jaskier’s skin, fingers massaging the tense muscle. Jaskier sighed into the touch, relaxing as Geralt's hands moved down towards the top of his hips, a feather-light kiss pressed at the nape of his neck. After his clothes were washed in the river and he’d changed into a fresh pair, the two were ready to continue on the road. Cautious of the new territory they found themselves in, Geralt and Jaskier watched each other quietly, the midday sun making Geralt’s eyes blare gold in the light, and Jaskier’s skin warm and glowing. Halfway down the road from the river, Geralt hoisted himself up onto Roach’s back, pulling Jaskier up after him. The horse swayed them in unison as Jaskier rested onto the leather of the Witcher’s broad shoulders. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for supporting this so far! I'm having a lot of fun writing it


	4. Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt can't fucking sleep

Anyone who knew Geralt knew about his insomnia. If they couldn’t tell from the red rim of his eyes or grey hollow to his face, they could tell from his terrible demeanour and groaning exclamations, usually something along the lines of “I can’t fucking sleep!”. Sometimes it would last for days, but on occasion, it could last for weeks, a long grey expanse of sleepless _hell_ which, at times, made him consider throwing himself from the nearest cliff if only to catch a glimpse of blessed rest. Geralt clung to sleep as if it were a drug. And Jaskier could see the telltale signs of withdrawal on his face as he sauntered slowly towards the fire pit from the previous night.

“didn’t sleep much?”

“What do you think, Jas?”

He frowned, running a hand over Geralt’s chest, a wasted effort to straighten out the wrinkles in his shirt. 

“That bad, huh? How long has it been?”

“‘bout a week now. Meditating has been getting me through it.”

Jaskier looked incredulous. “ _A_ _week?_ And you weren’t planning on telling me?”

“Didn’t think it concerned you.” 

“Of course it bloody concerns me! I’m the one who has to put up with you while you’re all _cantankerous_ like this!”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed dangerously. 

“It’s none of your business, Jas. Leave it.” He pushed past him to finish loading Roach’s saddlebags, but Jaskier followed closely behind.

“Oh, I get it. So whenever _I_ even so much as _sniffle_ you’re allowed to stuff cloves and honey down my throat but the moment I so much as _ask_ about your sleeping patterns suddenly it’s none of my business?”

Geralt turned in an instant, grabbing at Jaskier’s collar. 

“What’re you gonna do about it then, huh? You think I haven’t tried everything?”

“Can't _I_ at least try? No offence, Geralt, but self-care isn’t exactly your forte.”

The grip on his collar lessened, exhaustion evident on the Witcher’s face. 

“Fine.”

The pair finished packing and set out towards the nearest town, which they reached just before nightfall. Jaskier found a herbalist who sold teas and soothing roots for inducing sleep. He also bought a new fur blanket, plush and warm, and returning back to the inn where he shared a room with Geralt, unloaded his stash and began concocting brews of every sort, laying the furs down onto the large down-filled mattress. Watching Jaskier work made Geralt’s eyelids heavy. The moon was high in the sky as the bard finished his alchemy.

“Come to bed, Jas,” Was followed by a heavy yawn. 

“Here.” Jaskier thrust a warm mug into Geralt's hands. It’s contents were pale yellow, tiny white flowers floating atop the surface.

“Honey and chamomile?”

“mhm. How’d you know?”

Geralt smirked. “Smells like you.”

He took a hearty sip before making a face. He forced himself to finish the mug, setting it back into Jaskier’s hands and wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. 

“Alright, shirt off. This is a lavender rub that’s meant to relax the muscles.”

The Witcher peeled the fabric from his frame, tossing it to the floor. Jaskier took a moment to appreciate the robust musculature under his skin, before he quickly set to work, straddling Geralt’s waist and gently massaging the cream into the many scars that dotted his chest. He’d practically memorized the stories for each one, and repeated them in his head as he traced them endearingly. Once the cream was gone and the tea was sitting low and warm in his stomach, Geralt felt the ebb of drowsiness begin to take him.

“Stay with me.”

“Alright.”

And Geralt’s eyes slid closed, Jaskier’s hand enclosed in his own. The bard smiled despite himself at the stubbornness of the witcher. 

“Didn’t need my help, hm?”

He adjusted the furs around his partner before pulling them over himself. Geralt’s breathing had slowed to an even pace, his face soft and peaceful. Jaskier traced his jaw with his finger. Funny, how so many nights now Geralt would stay awake, watching over him protectively while he slept. Now he was the protector, the witcher soft and frail in the mercy of his bed. He found an agreeable patch of skin and nestled his head into it. Geralt’s hand tightened instinctively, pulling Jaskier’s arm over his waist. 


	5. Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt gets jealous

Geralt grunted over his beer, eyes fixed on his target, who was currently strumming madly at his lute in the midst of a crowded bar. The hunt for the werewolf had brought the two to Vizima, and though Geralt was glad to be out of Velen’s bog country, he hated the crowds that came with the royal city. He was tucked away in the darkest corner of the tavern, hood pulled over silver hair, smirking into his mug as Jaskier’s tunes sauntered along - most of them being about him and their misadventures together. The bard was wearing a periwinkle jacket with embroidered flowers and a feathered cap to match, the newly tailored suit clinging elegantly to his figure as he moved about the room. 

He’d insisted on spending some of the coin he’d picked up in the next town over for some new clothes since the run-in with the drowner had stained his favourite set beyond repair. He spent far too long running his hands over different Timerian silks and asking Geralt which he liked best (when frankly, they all looked quite the same to him). He finally came across the periwinkle, and Geralt conceded, saying that the “colour was nice,” which Jaskier deemed sufficient enough to settle on. The two got their hair cut, Geralt’s now tied neatly behind his head with black ribbon. They piled up on food as well, soft breads and cheeses and pork and wine and fruit. Geralt had also secretly bought some honey candy from a vendor, knowing full well how Jaskier had a sweet tooth. 

But now he was glaring holes through some barmaid who was wooed by the minstrel as he sweetly sang that one love ballad he liked so much. The interaction made Geralt’s skin itch; Jaskier, twittering angelically about a damsel who’d fallen so hopelessly in love, and the barmaid selfishly mistaking the song to be about her. He clenched the handle of his tankard so tight the wood groaned. The song finished, Jaskier smiled, bowed to the applause, and returned to Geralt’s table with a hearty satchel of coin. 

“How’d you rate my performance?”

“Hmm.” Geralt's grip loosened on the handle. 

“Always the critic, aren’t you?” Jaskier slid into the seat across from him, foot prodding his leg from under the table.

“I’m glad you decided to start wearing more clothes.”

“Only because you forced me. Kept the flowers, though.” He tapped his lapel. 

It wasn’t that Geralt was necessarily uncomfortable with Jaskier’s new performance attire. He looked beautiful, anyone could see that. And that was just the problem. He wanted that sight to himself, to selfishly drink in that supple flesh and tender voice, to scatter those flower petals as the other came undone beneath him. The barmaid from earlier approached their table, and Geralt bit the inside of his lip so hard he tasted blood. 

“I’m a big fan, Dandelion. Your ballads are always so pretty.” 

Jaskier blushed from the compliment and Geralt was sneering now, eyes narrow and glowing. When the woman extended her hand to give Jaskier her handkerchief, Geralt stood abruptly, and with a terse grunt, turned and left to storm up to his room at the inn above the bar, slamming the wooden door behind him. 

He knew Jaskier. He knew how Jaskier loved to be doted on, to be adored by fans and women alike, to bathe in the glory of popularity. He knew Jaskier would take that handkerchief from her, and he knew he’d most likely end up sleeping with her as well. 

_Fuck_.

The room was dimly lit by the smouldering fireplace, casting long shadows across the floor. Jaskier’s bags were clustered around the foot of the bed opposite Geralt’s, clean leather and canvas that was permeated with his scent. The Witcher's chest tightened as he fondled one of his hats with the ridiculous feather plume on top. A stack of parchments poking out of one of the bags caught his eye, and he reached over, shuffling the papers and trying desperately to make sense of the garbled handwriting. Most of them were unfinished songs scrawled with notes like “too boring!” Or “this chord is shit”. The last parchment in the stack made Geralt stop for a moment as he skimmed the lyrics.

“Oh, damsel of mine, tall and fair, 

I’m in love with your snow coloured hair.

The darkest of moods, by heaven she broods!

We really do make quite the pair. 

Of monsters so terribly vile, 

you slay them with nought but a smile. 

With such golden eyes,

With her my heart lies,

and happy to be so beguiled.”

“Geralt?”

Jaskier’s scent was suddenly fresh in the room and he turned, startled, papers scattering the floor. The bard’s face was marked with a red handprint where the barmaid had slapped him, and he reeked of ale and stale bread. 

So he wouldn’t be sleeping with her after all. 

The two looked at each other inquisitively, before Jaskier approached and casually looped his arms around the Witcher's neck. 

“What happened?”

The bard smiled sheepishly.

“Funny story, really. That woman who approached me must’ve gotten the wrong idea, and when I told her I was here with you she slapped me and splashed ale in my face.” He shrugged. “Women, right?”

And then Geralt’s arms were around him too, safe and warm and close, fingers thread into the back of soft brown hair. 

“Hey, you’ll get ale on your shirt too, you big lug!”

A grunt was all Jaskier was granted in return. 

They slowly separated with a silent agreement that a bath was desperately needed for both of them. Geralt heated water at the small wooden bath with a quiet _igni_ while Jaskier parted with his soiled clothes. He frowned at his new jerkin, now wet with alcohol.

“The bitch better not have ruined it. _Gods_ , right when we just got it made, too.” 

“I’ll clean it out later. If I can save a white shirt from basilisk venom then I should be fine to save Tamerian silk from some beer.”

Geralt appeared from behind the screen where we was working, now standing before Jaskier who swung his legs from atop a wooden table. Wordlessly, he peeled the damp undershirt from the bard, and soon the other reciprocated the action. They then stood a moment, unsure how to proceed.

“You, uhh, go get in first and close your eyes.”

“ _Jaskier_.”

“I’m serious! I feel as though I’ve suffered enough embarrassment for the day, I don’t need you undressing me as if I were a child.”

That wasn’t the reason Geralt wanted to undress him. He submitted with a grunt, disappearing back behind the blinds. He let out a groan as tense muscles met warm water, lapping at old scars.

“Alright, I’m not looking.”

Silence, then the padding of bare feet on hardwood. The water level shifted higher as a weight sank into the tub. The body moved, tiny ripples sending electricity through Geralt’s skin. 

“you can open them now.”

Blinking the bleariness from his eyes, Geralt was met with that cornflower blue gaze, wide and unsure. Jaskier's knees were drawn to his chest in the filmy water, skin flushed from the temperature, and he sank lower into the tub, feeling exposed under Geralt’s hungry gaze. Their legs touched and the bard jumped. 

“Relax.”

A warm baritone, barely above a whisper, and Geralt shifted so Jaskier’s back was at his chest, his heightened heartbeat resonant through his skin. His head rested back into the dip between Geralt’s neck and shoulder, so the witcher could just see the dark tops of closed eyelashes. They washed each other in silence, the sounds of the turbulent water being all that could be heard, moving in rhythm with the two of them. Geralt cleaned Jaskier’s hair, running his fingers through gently, cautious not to catch any knots. He rinsed him with warm water and was thanked with a turning of a cheek and the comfortable warmth of lips meeting. He moved, deepening the kiss with a hand at the back of his head and Jaskier hummed sweetly, water vibrating as the two stilled, joined for a moment in blissful silence. Jaskier’s arm looped around Geralt’s neck as he hoisted the two out of the water, slits of his pupils blown as round and wide as the sun. He laid Jaskier down onto the goose feather mattress, belly exposed and vulnerable to the white wolf’s mercy. 

_Trusting_. What did he ever do to deserve such trust? 

His eyes raked across the defenceless body beneath him, and leaning down, kissed tender nips at the flesh until it was pink between his teeth. Jaskier squirmed beneath him, mumbling his name in a breathy tone, hands in his hair.

_Jaskier._

_My Jaskier._

He sucked a bruise just below his Adam’s apple, kissing the blossom tenderly before pulling away, looking his partner in the eye, face flushed, hot and dishevelled.

This was the wolf marking his territory. This was the prey caught between the predators teeth.

This was the cage which he held him as they slept, tangled in each other’s arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please ignore my cringe attempt to write poetry I'm not good at it


	6. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here: some angst for u all

“Skellige?” Jaskier was looking up from his notes now.

“Yes, I’m leaving as soon as possible.”

The bard rolled over to sit up in the grass, 

“Never heard of a werewolf taking a holiday.”

“Because it isn’t a werewolf, it’s an Ulfhedinn. Must’ve just been passing through, which is why the villagers mistook it for one.” 

Geralt grunted, pulling down their tent from the night before and gathering his bags for departure. They’d finally gotten close enough to the beast for Geralt to recognize the scent; that and the pieces of fur they found on the road made it perfectly clear what the creature was. 

Black and oily -Ulfhedinn, had to be. Must have somehow stumbled it’s way onto the continent and then transformed- if it’s den was on Skellige, that’s most likely where it was headed now. This had somewhat thrown a wrench in his plans, as what had started out as a light-hearted excursion was now quickly turning into a dangerous trek. Skellige was not a place to be taken lightly, and neither was the Ulfhedinn itself, which was nearly twice as powerful and three times as bloodthirsty as a normal werewolf. The harsh environment of the isles made the creatures wiry and mean, and dangerously clever. This also meant that food was scarce, thus they usually had to resort to killing men, making them accustomed to the taste of human blood. The Witcher cast a worried glance over at his partner, who carelessly pulled a handful of grass from beneath him.

“Should be fun, then. I love the sea, and I’ve heard the isles are lovely this time of year.”

“Jas,” he sighed, “You’re not coming with me.”

Jaskier’s face went through a series of emotions before settling on something between anger and worry. 

“Come now, Geralt I’m in no mood for games.” 

“And neither am I, you’re staying here. Skellige is much rougher than the continent; half the populace is made up of pirates and bandits. And with this Ulfhedinn now, I’m far from confident that I can protect you.”

Jaskier sprang up from where he was sitting, now properly angry.

“And who asked _you_ to protect _me_?! I am more than capable of handling myself, thank you! Not that you’d bothered to consider how I might feel!”

Geralt rose to meet him, towering over the bard with his bulky stature. 

“Don’t be a fool. If you were almost torn to shreds by a measly _drowner_ , then how the hell am I supposed to trust you to hold your own against trained bandits? Or worse?”

“You’re running away again, aren’t you? Every time I get closer to peeling back the layers you disappear again, out of my life until it suits you to return! And hell, maybe I _could’ve_ handled that drowner if you weren’t there, maybe I _have_ handled them _hundreds of times_ before now, but what would you know! You were off living your destiny while I’m left with the shitty scraps of your flighty passion!” 

Geralt shrunk back slightly, the fight gone from him as he watched Jaskier rut about, red and angry. He let silence crowd them afterwards, the only sound being that of the bard’s ragged breathing. He wanted to say something, that he was wrong, that he only wanted him to be safe and taken care of, he was screaming out but no words were said, just burning eyes and parted lips and cold, desolate silence. 

“Leave me again, then,” Jaskier said after a while.

“My opinion in it doesn’t matter a whit to you. You know, Geralt, these past days have quite possibly been the happiest of my life? To stand with you, perhaps more as an equal than a nuisance? But apparently I was mistaken.” His blue eyes stung red with strangled tears as he gathered his things off the ground. 

“Sorry I wasn’t tough enough for you.” 

And suddenly he was walking away again, and Geralt felt strangled, standing there, watching as he went, head hung low, a hand pawing at his crying eyes. He croaked out a weak “Jas,” as he went, but the minstrel was too far down the road to hear, not that it would’ve mattered if he did. Geralt knew what Jaskier had said was right; he was weak, and Geralt had always protected him, as if purely by instinct, and why should it upset him so terribly now? Where Jaskier saw weakness, Geralt saw beauty; beauty in those soft hands and weak arms, beauty in the way he carried himself so delicately, like a little bird, yet confident as if he were a lion. But Jaskier only heard his father’s chastising voice in his head, the one that said "no son of his would dare be so weak", and he failed to see the innocence in Geralt’s overprotectiveness. Instead, only the threat that he would leave him again, and that he would never be good enough to make him stay. 


	7. Wolves

Geralt continued onwards down the path towards Oxenfurt, hoping to find a boat willing to sail to Skellige. The morning was cold and unforgiving and he cursed himself for letting Jaskier leave. Why did he let him leave? He was always such an ass with words, while Jaskier was so skilled with them, weaving lovely little poems and stories effortlessly. Geralt kicked a stone. The forested path he was travelling on was easing up now, the trees becoming thinner and more sparse as the road turned from dirt to gravel. 

He stopped for a minute to adjust the straps carrying his swords _when he heard it_. A low growl, followed by gathering footsteps and the padding of little feet. Wolves.

The Witcher turned suddenly, blade in hand, but he was a second too late. A haggard warg had shot out from the greenery, teeth bared as it sunk its fangs into the flesh of Geralt’s forearm. He shouted in surprise, hacking at the beast until it released him, but by then more had gathered, eyes glinting angrily from the darkness. 

The fight was long and brutal. Once Geralt had fought off one wolf the pack seemed to duplicate, swarming around him like angry hornets. As he slashed he came to the sobering realization that the Ulfhedinn must’ve been closer than he had expected. This panicked him slightly, as he had no time to prepare any potions or oils for the fight, thus he would be greatly outnumbered and overpowered. His limbs ached from heaving his sword around and blood seeped from the gashes that dotted his skin. He gasped for breath, deftly evading another lunging wolf, and he came to a terrifying realization that _he was losing_. Either it was fatigue from travelling so long or mental exhaustion from Jaskier’s departure that caused his performance to be so lacking, but either way, he shook as his sword met empty air with each lethargic swing. Finally, the wolves had him on the ground, and, defeated, he squeezed his eyes shut in submission. 

_Maybe I deserve this_ , he thought as the image of Jasper in pretty flowers flashed behind his eyelids. It was the sound of shouting and metal meeting flesh that caused him to open his eyes again. At first, he thought he was hallucinating; an angel in cornflower blue embroidered fabric had stepped in between Geralt and the wolves and was battling them single-handedly. He was wielding a small blade, but manoeuvred it beautifully, as the metal danced from wolf to wolf, opening deep crimson cuts along their pelts. The fight was a blur of blood and viscera until the wolves finally retreated, and all that was left was Jaskier, standing alone in the clearing, painted in claret and breathing heavily. Geralt’s heart clenched in his ribs at the sight. 

_He looked so beautiful_. 

Finally, Jaskier turned his gaze towards Geralt and alarm settled in his blue eyes. He knelt down to tend to the Witcher’s wounds, the smell of flowers and chamomile making Geralt’s head spin. He lifted a bloodied arm to cup the bard’s face. 

“You came back.”

Jaskier started ripping strips of fabric from his blue doublet to bind the Witcher’s wounds.

“Yeah. I thought you might need this.”

He thrust a half-empty bottle of werewolf sword oil into Geralt’s hands, the scent of his fingers still fresh against the lip of the glass. Geralt studied the potion in awe for a moment before turning back to Jaskier, who was busy tending to his wounds.

“How’d you make this?” He asked sheepishly.

“I used to study your potion books when you were asleep. I’m not nearly as dumb as I look, I assure you.” 

Geralt gazed at him, pupils blown wide, thin slits reduced to wide, dark circles. 

“Jaskier, I love you.”

The words sounded foreign as they left his mouth, and the Witcher could hardly believe they had come from him at all. Jaskier couldn’t either, apparently, as he had stilled from tying bandages and now just stared down at Geralt, misty-eyed. 

“W-what?” 

Geralt sat up to pull Jaskier down into a tender kiss. His head was still spinning from blood-loss, but the sudden possessive urge that pulsed through his veins was more powerful. Jaskier’s scent crowded around him, suffocating him, but he didn’t care. He deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against Jaskier’s teeth and the bard moaned, eyes fluttering shut. Geralt held him for a long time like that, until, breathlessly, Jaskier collapsed into his lap, his face against his chest. 

“I won’t leave you again, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let you go.”

“Damn right!” Jaskier shot back, voice slightly muffled by Geralt’s shirt.

“Stay with me, little dandelion.”

Jaskier relaxed into Geralt’s embrace, eyes brimming with tears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait it's called 'hating everything I write' and also 'depression'


	8. Fire

As the pair set out for Oxenfurt harbour together, Jaskier was still somewhat prickly towards Geralt. He was slowly coming down from being on edge around him, the fear dissipating that, one day, he’ll be abandoned again. Geralt, an ass with words (as always), decided he would try his best to dissuade these notions from his partner by being as physically affectionate towards him as possible. They rode on Roach’s back together, Geralt’s hands gently gripping Jaskier’s slender hips as they shifted from side-to-side in the saddle. He would occasionally bend forward so that his forehead would meet the nape of the bard’s neck, sometimes peppering a sparse kiss across a bare patch of skin just behind his ear. At first, Jaskier found this behaviour quite alarming and would flinch or jump away each time Geralt tried to touch or kiss him. But now, as the two were approaching the bridge leading into Oxenfurt, Jaskier’s eyes fluttered shut at the touch, a gentle smile playing at his lips. Where mistrust and fear had once been, there was now an understanding that Geralt needed Jaskier as much as he needed him.

Getting into Oxenfurt was easy- the city was alive with people; merchants, cloth sellers, and noblemen of all types roamed the darkening streets. Jaskier and Geralt hitched Roach just inside the city gates as lights started to come on inside the houses, a blue night creeping up over the horizon. The port was still busy when they arrived, though it was difficult finding a boat that was willing to sail all the way out to the Skellige isles this time of year. Luckily, with a bit of Jaskier’s smooth-talking and Geralt’s gold, they hitched a ride with a leatherworker, who was returning to Skellige to sell his wares. The journey was long and rough, the bitter salt water of the sea relentlessly jostling the boat as they travelled. Jaskier was often seasick, and so Geralt would stay up to rub his back and smooth his hair as he shivered and wretched in the night. They slept together in the small bed they were given, Geralt’s back to the wall as he pressed his chest against the bard, who entangled his long limbs with the Witcher’s thick muscular ones.

Once they reached Skellige, they found an abandoned farmhouse in Fyresdal where they decided to sleep for the night. The Ulfhedinn’s trail had gone cold, and Geralt had grown anxious. 

“Perhaps we just got here before he did?” Jaskier offered as he rolled a sleeping mat out onto the dirt floor of the farmhouse. 

“It’s possible, but we got so close to him back when I was attacked by wolves. I’m sure he was the one behind that ambush.”

Jaskier shrugged, tugging off his boots and pants with a weary sigh. The journey had been long and hard, and though he was glad to see it almost through, he worried what would happen between him and Geralt after it was over. 

“What if instead of _us_ hunting _him_ , he’s now the one hunting _us_ instead?” Geralt scratched at the white stubble under his chin, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Maybe you should just let it go?” Jaskier wrapped himself in one of Geralt’s fur blankets, his exposed skin shivering in the open air. “You’re probably just overthinking it.”

Unconvinced, Geralt moved to begin making a fire. The two sat side-by-side in the flickering yellow light, the popping sound of the burning wood filling the silence. 

“Geralt, what happens once this contract is over? What will you do?”

Geralt thought for a moment before responding. “I’ll probably go back to Kaer Morhen. I still need to take care of Ciri, it’s not fair to leave it all up to Vesemir and the others.”

Jaskier went quiet. He knew he was expecting too much from him, but he had secretly been hoping Geralt might invite him to come with him and-

“I want you to come with me.”

Jaskier blinked. “What?”

“I want you to come back with me to meet Ciri. It’s not fair that you’ve never met her. Plus you can see where I grew up and stuff, I guess…” 

Geralt trailed off, looking away shyly, but Jaskier reached up to cup his face, turning him to meet his eyes. 

“I would love nothing more, my dear Witcher.” 

Jaskier gently brought his lips to meet Geralt’s, smiling all the while. He pulled his fingers through his long white hair until his hands met the back of his scalp. Geralt reciprocated, gently biting the bard’s soft bottom lip, receiving a satisfying hum in return. The kiss was deepened, Jaskier opening his mouth slightly to allow the Witcher’s tongue to swipe the space behind his teeth. He let out a breathy little moan, and suddenly something in Geralt snapped. That same possessive feeling he had felt earlier flooded him again, taking over his senses like an intoxicating wine. With a grunt, he pushed the bard down into the fur blankets beneath him as he hovered just above, their shared breaths hot between them as the fire continued crackling gently in the background. Jaskier gasped, biting his lip as Geralt’s knee pressed in-between his bare thighs. Their heartbeats were so loud they could be heard amidst the silence of the empty barn house. Jaskier’s pupils were blown wide as he looked up at the man hovering above him, whose large hands began exploring his chest and thighs as they kissed. 

“G-Geralt,” he moaned, his arousal becoming obvious underneath his thin white nightshirt. The Witcher leaned down to lick a wet stripe across his neck, eliciting a whine from the bard. “P-please, touch me.”

A sudden loud _BANG_ from the farmhouse door caused the two to jump, suddenly separating. Another followed, then another, causing Geralt to jump to his feet, groping around in the dark for his sword. 

“What the fuck was that!” Jaskier shrieked, bundling the furs up around his exposed legs, eyes wide with fear. The door continued to shake as if someone was trying to break it down. Then they heard it- a wolf’s howl. 

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered, finding his sword, and soon after, his composure. The Ulfhedinn _had_ been hunting them, and now he’d found where they’d been hiding out. Geralt felt slightly panicked at being caught off-guard like this, and so his hands shook slightly as he laced up his boots.

“You stay here, Jas. I’m going out there to fight them off.”

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Jaskier asked, fear still evident in his voice. Geralt knew the bard was in no state to fight, as his ears and face were still flushed from their previous encounter. 

“I’ll be fine, I have the rest of the sword oil you made. Besides, it’s not like we’ll be able to sleep with wolves circling outside our door.” And with that, he slipped out into the cold black night. 

The battle was tough, but Geralt had significantly more of an advantage than last time, his blade easily slipping into the wolves flesh with the help of the oil. Once it was over, Geralt stood heaving for a moment, blood fresh on his skin and clothes. 

Unfortunately, amidst the chaos and sound of wolf cries, Geralt didn’t hear Jaskier’s shrieks from inside the farmhouse. And so once he entered the building again, the fire he had lit had been snuffed out, and Jaskier was nowhere to be seen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha sorry for the blue balls Geralt


	9. Blood

Geralt moved as swift and silent as the night itself. His feet barely touched the ground as he ran, his blood ablaze with panic and rage. He felt like a fool, allowing himself to be lead into such an obvious trap; at some point, the dynamics had shifted so that it was the Ulfhedinn persuing Geralt instead of the other way around. Jaskier was an obvious choice to use as bait, as only a fool couldn't see how devoted Geralt had become to him. It had seen how Geralt fell apart without him, how he slowly unravelled like a self-destructive ball of yarn the second he would be parted with his beloved bard. The creature probably figured Geralt would be an easy kill, once he’d tore the younger one to pieces. He would be right.

The scent of Jaskier’s skin was still fresh in the night air, and Geralt desperately clung to the trail as he wove through the Skellige forest. He could only imagine how terrified Jaskier felt, his fear evident in the sour, citrus-like scent that still hovered thickly through the air. He could imagine him being carried away, his white nightgown torn and dirtied as he cried out desperately into the cold, unforgiving night.

Shivering, Geralt pushed forward, breaking through the forest into a vast, rolling field of purple wildflowers, which swayed silently underneath the blue light of the full moon overhead. There he stopped cold, as he noticed two figures protruding from the hillside.

The moonlight made Jaskier look like a ghost as he stood there on the hillside, the white fabric of his nightgown moving around him as if he were suspended underwater, his hair wild around his face. He stood before the Ulfhedinn, which had extended himself to his full height, standing on his back legs as he towered over him. In the bard’s hand, he steadily gripped a delicate silver blade. Geralt watched him breathlessly, the tender young bard now a vision of the valkyrie, beautiful, yet undeniably dangerous.

He felt a sudden stab of guilt for all the times he’d rushed to protect Jaskier without another thought. To him, Jaskier was soft and fragile, _mortal_ , and easily lost. He wasn’t like Yennifer, or his brothers back in Kaer Morhen. He was the first person Geralt had loved who was completely unlike him, which only made him care all the more for him. But seeing him now, in torn white fabric, stood unwavering, his blade glowing under the light, Geralt didn’t see someone who was weak, and who needed to be protected. He saw Jaskier’s strength, and immediately wished he was back in his arms again.

The Ulfhedinn lunged forward and Jaskier jumped back, narrowly escaping the attack and shallowly running his sword through the creature’s pelt. It cried out, but still stood steadfastly before him, quickly recovering. Geralt saw Jaskier’s eyes go wide, suddenly realizing he couldn’t hurt the creature without the sword oil he’d made earlier.

Finally, Geralt was shaken free from his trance, now plunging forward into the field of purple flowers. His eyes glowed yellow in the darkness as he allowed rage to consume him once again, oil glinting red off his blade. He charged into the beast, knocking it clean over into the tall grass beneath him. Jaskier jumped as Geralt let out a guttural cry, wrestling with the Ulfhedinn in the grass, grabbing great fistfuls of its oily fur. He stood watching with round eyes, before crying out too, plunging his delicate silver blade into the beast’s bloodied flesh. Geralt began to hack at its limbs, carving off great black chunks from its horrible body as it howled out in pain beneath him. Both Geralt and Jaskier had a feral look to them, their eyes wide and teeth bared as they slowly became covered in fresh blood. The two continued to hack at the creature until finally, it lay still beneath them, their breathing becoming ragged and uneven. The night was newly silent again, save for the sound their breathing and the swaying of the grass rustling around them.

Finally, the Ulfhedinn was dead.

Geralt panted for a moment, adrenaline still fresh in his veins as his eyes wandered to his partner, whose white nightgown was now stained a sticky black under the moonlight. His blue eyes were as round as saucers, his hands now shaking as he came down from the high of the battle. He stared at Geralt mutely, before Geralt moved forward, bending down slightly so that he could capture Jaskier’s lips in a relived kiss. Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, bringing his bloodied hands up to shakily cup the sides of Geralt’s face in return.

Wordlessly, Geralt turned away to collect a chunk of fur from the Ulfhedinn’s cold body for proof of the beast’s death. He then swiftly turned to loop an arm underneath Jaskier, lifting him effortlessly, and carrying his trembling body down to a small stream that ran through grass nearby. He set the bard by the edge of the water, peeling his sullied nightgown from his slender body, before running the fabric under the water, watching as the blood was carried away downstream by the current. He coaxed Jaskier’s hands under the water as well, holding them gently between his fingers as he rubbed the blood from his pale skin. The sound of the burbling brook filled the silence between them as Geralt gently washed the rest of the viscera from Jaskier’s body, giving careful attention to be as gentle as possible. He then wrapped his powerful arms around the bard, burying his face in his hair. He kissed his shoulders and the nape of his neck, and Jaskier brought a hand up to touch the Witcher’s face.

“I’m ok.” He whispered.

Geralt’s hands wandered over his damp skin as he breathed a hushed reply-

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW that took me forever to update, whoops! Seriously struggled with this chapter sorry y'all


	10. Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD i am so sorry this took me so long to finish, I finally got the time and nerve to finish this bad boy so here yall go I hope you enjoy!!

Had Geralt ever known pleasure before this moment? The question clouded his mind as he listened to the grass rustle in the night, Jaskier’s breathing deafening against the silence. Every one of his senses burned, adrenaline setting his nerves alight in the crowded night.

Jaskier lay bare in the flowers, bruises beginning to blossom about his neck and chest. He shuddered, mouth wet from fevered kisses, aroused as Geralt’s hands ghosted over his body. Had they been waiting for this? So many times had they nearly crossed the threshold of lust and greed, but always stood just at the edge, denying themselves the bitter fruit of release.

Jaskier was wet, and his pupils dilated fully, blind if not for the light of the moon and the soft orange glow of Geralt’s eyes in the dark. His hands found themselves at familiar spots on his body; the places he knew would make him feel swelling pleasure and oppressive heat.

But Geralt held his hands still- he wanted to drink in every inch of his orgasm, to be the chief commander of his pleasure. He had waited so long for this.

His hole twitched, and Jaskier begged him to touch him. Geralt complied, finger slick with pre-cum, entering easily. The entrance quivered around him, and hooking his fingers he elicited a cry, back arched into the flowers beneath him. So wet, so hot, he felt his head spinning, using every ounce of his strength to hold back his animalistic desire to plunge hard and fast into his partner. He fingered him slowly, watching pre-cum leak onto his belly, Jaskier, his Jaskier, a flower blossoming amongst the field.

He pushed into him slowly, heat swallowing him up, inch by inch. Jaskier’s skin was alight, each touch causing him to spasm beneath him, begging, teary-eyed, for release. But not yet.

His thumb and forefinger rolled a pink bud between them, his tongue finding the other. He bit lightly, eliciting a jerk. His partner began to touch his cock, now painfully red and oozing deliciously. Geralt pulled his hand away.

“Not like that.”

He snapped his hips and Jaskier moaned, his hands pinned uselessly above his head. His cock bobbed against his stomach, painfully. The long grass brushed against their pale naked skin, moving in time with the lovers' desperate movements. Jaskier was a mess of incomprehensible babbling, hands grasping uselessly at the foliage beneath him. Geralt was sure to take his time claiming his prize. In a moment of possessiveness, he gripped Jaskiers hips, the words “I love you” barely ghosting past his lips, but Jaskier heard them all the same.

He came with a cry, and Geralt began slowing his pace, making sure to push every last drop from his partner before he lay limp beneath him. Then they were still, their breathing filling the emptiness of the night air. Jaskier lay in the flowers, decorated with bands of pearlescent white, smiling blissfully.

* * *

As the mountains of Kaer Morhen began to rise above the horizon, Geralt felt a familiar wave of relief. The journey home had been surprisingly peaceful as if the world was giving him this moment of bliss to relish before the chaos of life came crashing down around him again. Jaskier yawned behind him, shifting on Roach’s back, slowly coming back from sleep. He blinked up at the mountain before them and gasped excitedly.

“Shame on you Geralt, for not bringing me here sooner. It’s beautiful!”

As soon as they were within the confines of the main gate, Geralt could hear Ciri’s excited footsteps echoing against the stone pavement. She squealed with delight and hugged him, already rambling about what she and Vesemir had gotten up to while he’d been gone. Then, once her excitement had settled, she turned to face the stranger that rode on horseback behind them.

“Who’s this?”

Geralt helped Jaskier off his horse before turning back to Ciri.

“This is Jaskier, my partner.”


End file.
